There are two ways that professional soldiers, exceptional ones like us, the Helljumpers, cope with the stress of battle. Either we simply don't care, become psychotic, general Section-8 fucknuts who are too valuable to let go, or we care so much that all we do is to fight to protect what we care for. I fell into that second road. So did many of the others. We cared, we cocky bastards, so much for Earth, we loved it so much, we patriotic bastards, that we shed blood wherever our leaders told us to go. We battled countless enemies, we executed, tortured, all in the name of God and Earth, both of which were interchangeable. We became butchers, one hell of soldiers, asskickers and nametakers, butchers, butchers, butchers. Helljumpers. The name alone kind of tells you the whole damn thing, doesn't it? So why do I feel so used, after years of fighting?

It happened like this. A little city, tranquil, middle-western, the perfect city for a little zombie-infestation. So of course, God willing, little zombies sprouted up like dandelions from sewer grates, bursting forth to take what they can, killing, eating, and of course, the spontaneous act of resurrecting the dead to mindless killing machines. The whole thing. It was like a movie.

You know what happens after. The loyal, brave, courageous team of super-troopers go in, kick some ass, rescue some hot women and some useful men, watch fat people get killed, and escape as the whole damn city blows up in a cloud of inferno. Helljumpers. We have a line of toys out now.

But it didn't happen like that. The Section-8 fucknuts didn't care, of course, but the ones who truly cared, the ones who fought for what honor there was left, for the ideal of free Earth, we were fucked up by this shit. I killed a woman with a red-gold hair, in the name of God.

I, along with sixteen other men were sent into the little, sleepy town of Los Alamos, the newly-areoformed desert city which was now a tropical paradise. The news was, as I told you, little eyeballs were jumping around nibbling on dead bodies, and the dead bodies were getting up and then going on suicide rampages. The local military and the militia were having some problems because of that. They were dead. So, in the momentous day of December 13th, we fuckin' helljumped into the city.

We searched at first, delving into a few buildings here and there. The place was wrecked, of course. Derelict buildings, bullet holes, and such. But there were no bodies. Some blood stains, but that was all. It was as if a giant vacuum cleaner had swept up all the bodies, to some immeasurbly big bag of cosmic doom. Oh, God, how I was right and wrong.

Contrary to the popular opinion, Helljumpers aren't really bloodthirsty butchers. Even the fucknuts aren't. They like killing, but they hate blood. What? You want action? You bloodthirsty fucks. Fine, I'll narrate the action. Starting from the beginning.

James looked around (that's me), the battle rifle nestled comfortably in his hand. The city was wrecked; a riot had taken place here, it seemed, some charge of trampling feet wrecking all that was in their path. Some cats and dogs dead on the road. What looked to be a child -it was hard to tell- trampled and now dried. "The place is FUBAR," said Devan. James nodded. "Come on. Let's search the interiors. There's gotta be some survivors to this mess." He started walking up to the least-demolished building, a pharmacy. Devan followed, after alerting the others that they were going to investigate a nearby building. Inside, however, the place was again fucked up beyond usual recognition. James searched the place with thermal imaging, hoping for some heat traces; but there was none. Devan followed him in. "Nothing?" Devan asked. "No. What did the briefing say again? Some kind of a riot?" "No... Some hostile biological organisms*, they said. We thought it'd be the Covenant, but then... They leave a clean place when their done. This place is just plain fucked up." Devan said. James nodded. He motioned for Devan to follow, and walked outside, puzzled.

I really wish I left before all the shit happened.

James and Devan searched a few more buildings, hoping again to spot some survivors. But they still found only destroyed buildings and wrecked vehicles. It was strange. James communicated with the other groups; but they weren't succesful either, except for the squad 3, the fucknut group, who weren't answering at all. They had been investigating the bio-lab sectors. "Hey, James, look..." Devan pointed. Jamed saw the outside perimeters of the city being suddenly encased in purple shielding; quarantine fields. He was suddenly frightened. "What are they doing?" James asked. "Don't know. Although why they are setting up a quarantine field without telling us is weird-"

I can't stand talking about myself in third person.It's just idiotic. I'll continue the story in first person.What, you can't stand my opinions? Well, go fuck yourself, then.

I (James) stood a little back, as we went at a steady jog towards the interval point where we were supposed to meet up with Sam and Wong. The gaudy red sign that advertised "Girls, Girls, Guys" was right above where we were supposed to meet; I could see it a mile off. Devan said: "Guys? That's a little wrong, isn't it?" "Hey, careful. Sam's going for the guys." "Yeah, but she's a woman-" "What about me being a woman?" Sam butted in.